the door. They had endless spiral cords, which enabled her to walk around the house talking and even take a phone to bed.
“The pink phone’s a number for… usual callers. The white phone has a number only for special, select people… like you, Nate.”
She gave me that number and, feeling special and select, I jotted it in my little notepad.
“Actually,” she said, and bit her lip, shyly, “those phones are kind of why I wanted you to come see me.”
“Really.”
She nodded, frowned, glanced toward the hall. “Why don’t we go out and sit by the pool.”
“Sure.”
We did that, settling into black wrought-iron chairs. This was a more modest pool than the Fox soundstage one, and she quickly said she rarely used it, but encouraged guests to do so. We had a view of the narrow sloping backyard with eucalyptus and other trees.
Some hammering and other construction sounds came from her guesthouse, and I had the feeling that was partly why we were seated here, where our conversation would be concealed.
“I have to be careful,” she said softly. Then she smiled past me at Mrs. Murray, framed in the glass doors. She gave her housekeeper/companion/social secretary a little wave and the woman smiled and nodded and faded back into the living room, like a ghost.
“ She’s a ray of sunshine,” I said.
“I don’t really like her,” Marilyn said, matter of fact. “But she’s a friend of Dr. Greenson’s and needs the job.”
“Dr. Greenson is… the shrink you mentioned?”
She nodded. “The remodeling I’m doing?” She flicked a red-nailed finger toward the guesthouse and the hammering. “Mrs. Murray’s son-in-law Norman is doing that. He’s harmless. Maf likes him.”
“Maf?”
“My little poodle. Short for Mafia. Guess who gave him to me?”
“Sinatra.”
“Ha! You’re good. Anyway, Maf tags around after Norman, and that’s fine. When I have company, Maf can be a pesky little bother, the sweetie.”
I shifted, and the wrought-iron squeaked. “So what do you need, Marilyn?”
She gave me an impish look, reached over and squeezed my hand. “What if I said I needed a man?”
“I’d say you came to the right place.”
“Could I trust you not to fall in love with me?”
“No. But you can trust me not to marry you. I’ve married one actress and that’s my limit.”
She laughed soundlessly, flicked her head, and the platinum stuff bounced. “Maybe one of these days or nights, we can have a little fun. Would you like that, Nate?”
“I don’t hate the thought.”
Her eyes widened and her smile broadened. “Did your son have fun? At the set?”
“You bet.”
“I’m sorry they shooed you off with the photographers.” She shivered. “I was in that water for four hours!”
“Sam would’ve liked to meet you.”
“We’ll correct that one of these days.” She shifted; more squeaking. “Now… about my phones.”
“What about your phones?”
“I want you to tap them for me. You know-record my calls?”
“I know what phone-tapping is, Marilyn. Why?”
Her eyes went to the pool, where sunlight glittered like her best friends. “It’s this studio fight. I’m trying to get reinstated, and I’m having to talk to some… unlikely bedfellows.”
“What kind?”
“For instance-if you can believe it-Darryl Zanuck. He never liked me, you know. Thought I was just another bimbo-didn’t ‘get’ it. But he gets it now. He and Spyros Skouras are trying to get reinstated, too-trying to sell the Fox board that these Wall Street lawyers who took over don’t know rule one about movies. Rule one being, don’t fuck with Marilyn unless she’s in the mood.”
“And for this you need your phone tapped?”
“Yes. I want to keep track. What do they call it, a paper trail? I want a tape trail. Do you know how to do that?”
“Not personally, no, but there’s a guy we use.”
Roger Pryor, an ex-FBI man, did all the A-1’s work out here. He was a whiz at this spy stuff.
“When can you… Sorry.” She had raised a finger to her lips, and was looking past me.
A guy who might have been Tony Perkins’ homelier, taller brother ambled over, a tool kit clanking in his grasp. He was wearing coveralls and a blank expression. “Excuse me, Miz Monroe. I need to get some things from the house.”
“That’s fine, Norman. You really don’t have to ask.”
“Well, I saw you got company and figured maybe I should.”
“That’s thoughtful, Norman. Thanks.”
He ambled off.
“That was Norman,” she said.
No kidding.
“If this is about something else,” I said, “something more than just this movie studio nonsense, you should tell me. Like you’d tell your shrink.”
“What makes you think that?”
“The way you couldn’t meet my eyes when you were going on about it. If you’re in trouble, if somebody’s bothering you, I am that man you said you needed.”
“No, really, Nate-just do this job.”
“Okay. I’ll find out when my guy is available, and call you on your private line. You’ll need to make sure both Mrs. Murray and Norman are out of the house.”
“That shouldn’t be a problem. There’s always shopping to be done. Will a thousand-dollar retainer do?”
“Sure.”
She’d anticipated this and drew a checkbook out of her capris. She was handing me the check with her famous signature still glistening when Mrs. Murray stuck her head out of the house, like a cuckoo from a clock, and informed Marilyn that Mr. Zanuck was on the line.
I wasn’t an actor, but I knew my cue. We both stood, then I got one more quick kiss from Marilyn, and took my leave.
Pulling the Jag away from the peaceful little hacienda, I couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to this than Marilyn was sharing. But for right now I’d have to settle for the thousand she’d given me.
CHAPTER 3
When I exited the unmarked cul-de-sac onto quietly residential Carmelina Avenue, I noticed a nondescript vehicle parked just around the corner. On my right as the Jag turned left, the white panel truck may or may not have been there before. On my way here, I hadn’t been in any kind of investigative mode, and was trying to find the unmarked street half of a strange address.
Maybe it was this phone-bugging job of Marilyn’s that made me notice now.
But I would like to think I hadn’t been so distracted that seeing the enclosed Hollywood TV Repair van, parked near the mouth of Fifth Helena, wouldn’t have jumped out at me, anyway.
And now we had the disturbing coincidence of this vehicle belonging to Roger Pryor, the guy who did A-1’s electronic surveillance work. The same Roger Pryor whose name had popped into my head when Marilyn asked me
